Don’t worry too much: I’ve been splashing it around since I was 12 years old, often several times a day. It wipes off.

But here comes a big splash of testosterone all over your face: the Bugatti Veyron is one of the greatest achievements mankind has ever made. It’s a “Concorde moment”, one of those occasions that brings to mind Browning:

a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?

The Veyron is that heaven. It’s that sepulchral over-reach. Like Concorde, it’s something we didn’t need, but made anyway. Bugatti didn’t make a car that was as good as it needed to be. They didn’t make one which was slightly better than it needed to be. They made one miles better. To be exact, 14,163,479 miles better than it needs to be, which by coincidence is the average distance from Earth to Mars.

But Browning be damned: we’re not going to Mars. And we should be! It’s mankind’s next big leap, and looking back at the 1960s you can clearly see the massive benefit to the economy generated by the space programme. But where are the political giants today? Where are the men (or women) who will say “We will go to Mars this decade because it is almost insurmountable”? There are none. We’re led by midgets. In fact we’re not even led: our leaders, such as they are, don’t attempt to give us direction, they just listen to uneducated, disconnected mob mentality (that’s you and me, folks) and then shape their policies to appear as though they’re doing what we want them to.

Is this what you wanted? Look around. You asked for this, and now look. It’s a result of what we want, not what we need. We need to do something insurmountable. The history of man is the history of surmounting insurmountable hurdles, and it always benefits us.

But the first political question about Mars is this: how can you justify spending the estimated $100 billion it would cost to land a man there?

And my answer to that is: we do it all the time. Look at the Fucking Olympics (that’s their official title in my household). The Fucking Olympics is costing £14 billion, and that’s just the stuff that’s been admitted in public. It will cost more. Once you add the cost of policing, security, lost income from travel chaos, lost homes from scurrulous landlords and lost dignity from Boris Johnson, the total cost will probably be £20 billion.

Spent on, let’s face it, running about.

The cost of the next three Fucking Olympic Games would put a man on Mars. The Mars project would create 20 million jobs and cause a great leap forward in our technological (and spiritual) lives. It would draw the planet together in a profound way which anybody under the age of about 55 simply cannot grasp, because the last time anything remotely similar happened was 1969.

Whereas the Fucking Olympics is a school sports day with pretensions of greatness. The constituent parts happen week in, week out, and nobody gives a shit. Really: when did you last tune in to watch the archery? Or yachting? Or even “exciting” things like the 100 metres? All we’ve got for our £14-£20 billion is a way for “democratically” elected dictators to wank out a massive, pointless vanity project; and for approximately 200 people who run, jump and skip really well, to run, jump and skip really well in a shiny stadium.

Do you know who Neil Armstrong is? Yes.

Do you know who Andreas Thorkildsen is? No. And you never will. Even if you Google him right now, the information will vanish from your brain within 60 seconds, because it’s fucking useless, just like everything about the Fucking Olympics.

We’re currently on day 5 of a 70 day programme of “running around with a torch”, which is intended to make me feel excited. But it doesn’t, because I can replicate it perfectly by jogging to the shop carrying a candle. And all it’s promoting is yet more running about.

All Fucking Olympics to be held in Greece. Why constantly build new stadiums at vast expense and for no conceivable purpose? Really? If you give a flying, frisbeeing fuck about the 4×400 women’s relay, pop over to Athens and watch it there. I’ll agree that the Olympics should be held outside of Greece when the Baseball World Series is held in Swaziland.

All Fucking Olympic athletes to be chosen at random. You know Mrs Winkelstien down the road? Yeah, she’s doing the pole-vault this year, dicky hip or not. Come on, you know that would be more fun to watch, and at least the Chinese wouldn’t always win.

No more spending on Fucking Olympics until it can be shown to benefit mankind. Even if it’s just with a new form of velcro (which is what most people assume is the only benefit of the space program, the fools)

And every news channel must stop banging on about the Fucking Olympics, because – shock – it’s NOT FUCKING NEWS! Today they stopped reporting about the collapse of the entire world’s economy to tell us that the World’s Gayest Firelighter had been carried from Ilfracombe to Woolacombe – and they even had reporters on the spot to find out if local children cared (they didn’t, they just liked being on telly). When we’re all living in a cave, scratching out a meagre existence by making soup from the bones of our fallen relatives, we can look back on this as the moment we should have spotted how fucked up we were.

So that’s It. It’s It with a capital I. I want to hear no more about “amateur athletes” who get paid a fortune to do nothing but sports; or the “Fucking Olympic ideal”, which now incorporates the world’s largest McDonalds; or the “honest nobility” of millionaire yachtsmen who got trained by private schools to “represent” Great Britain, a nation whose citizens they actually would piss on if we were on fire. Piss on, and laugh.

That’s literally It. I’m off to Mars until the whole Fucking Olympics has vanished up all 5 of its Fucking Rings.

Last year I found out I had cancer. Bummer! I got better, and other than a foot-long scar and an increased determination to be selfishly happy, I’m the same as I was before.

But it’s a pain in the arse to not have cancer any more. It’s not that I want sympathy – far from it, sympathy makes me feel very uncomfortable. But having had cancer once upon a time means that people look at me differently from now on. They assume I’m rotting away from the inside, or that there’s something about me which might be contagious, or that my body is somehow “wrong”. My body is wrong in lots of ways, as anybody who’s seen me naked can attest, but most of my wrongness is caused by Hobnobs.

In case you’re from overseas and don’t know what Hobnobs are, they’re an oaty biscuit with a delicious topping made from chocolate and crack cocaine. They’re also the gnarliest of the biscuits: you can dunk them in hot tea for hours at a time, and they retain their structural integrity. Only the Bourbon Cream is anywhere near as tough. For the benefit of Johnny Foreigner, the Bourbon Cream is a sandwich made up of two crunchy biscuits, bonded together with a layer of what might be cat sick.

Enough biscuit news, back to cancer. Yes, I’m missing a kidney, but loads of people only have one functioning kidney and never even notice. There’s a fair chance you’ve got a knackered one, or maybe even an excess of kidneys. It’s not uncommon.

Because of my many personality failings I barely know any other humans. But even amongst the tiny group of people who can bear me (mainly employees, which surely doesn’t count, because I have to pay them to hang out with me) – even amongst those few people, I know one guy who has 6 kidneys and another with 8. And that’s somewhat lavish, given that I’m living proof than more than one is totally unnecessary. If I was missing two kidneys I’d be worried, but missing one is no worse than losing a middle toe: unsightly, unexpected and requires explanation, but it doesn’t really impact on your life.

The worse thing about not having cancer, though, is having to mix with people who do. It’s not them, it’s me. No, really, it is. They hate me.

I’m taking part in a clinical trial to find out if it’s safe for former cancer patients to take a drug that might (fingers crossed) cure a load of kidney cancers that currently only have a surgical solution. My cancer was one of those – if the surgery had failed there was, at the time, bugger all they could do. I was lucky mine was operable, in spite of being enormous. But this drug offers the hope that surgery might not be necessary, and I’m doing my little part in checking for side-effects. I’ve been doing it for a year, and it’s perfectly safe so far. But it means every 6 weeks I have to go to Christies Cancer hospital for a scan.

And that’s where the trouble starts.

I roll up to Christies at 9am, and they plonk down a vat of putrid liquid that they’ve tried to disguise with chemical that I’m sure is Agent Orange, or possibly Draino. I have to drink 2 small cups of it, and then another cup every 15 minutes for 2 hours. It’s got radium in it, so after the scan is over I’m made to chew a chalky and nasty iodine tablet to soak up the radioactivity, and although it’s (sadly) never happened yet, I’m always warned that the drink might make my poo glow in the dark. I’ll keep you informed about my motions.

Then they make me dress in a humiliatingly arseless hospital gown, shove a canula into my arm, and sit me in a waiting room with 8-10 cancer patients who are waiting for scans too. And we wait, often for 2 hours.

If you’re in a cancer hospital, cancer is the sole topic of conversation. They’re like those old women who start every discussion with the words “I’m 87, you know”. There’s a polite silence when a new person arrives, but within 15 seconds somebody asks “What’s wrong with you, then?”.

They don’t want to know what’s wrong with you really; they just want an excuse to tell everybody what’s wrong with them. They should blog, it’s much less intrusive.

There follows a litany of melanomas, carcinomas, lymphomas and sarcomas. It would scare the bejeesus out of me if I wasn’t aware that 90% of all cancers are now completely curable. This ward is full of the exceptions, but it takes presence of mind to remember that, and not to suddenly freak out that every human on the planet is currently host to a massive tumour

They take it in turns to tell their story, and everyone says the same things:

The NHS is a marvel, Britain’s greatest achievement, and we’ll be lost without it (are you listening Andrew Lansley, you callous cunt?)

Christies cancer hospital, in particular, is a cathedral of care, filled with love and genius, and performing miracles at every moment

Life is a good thing, worth fighting for, and they are determined to live every second

If you’re depressed, go and hang out there. I know I sound like Fight Club, but you’ve never met a bunch of people so determined to have fun. I think that in life we all need something to kick against, and cancer is certainly that. In energises your spirit in some way – I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, not even Thatcher (which is saying something); but it has a remarkable ability to focus your attention on what’s good about life. In case you’re wondering, what’s so good about life is almost everything.

And in most cases, cancer makes you laugh a lot more. Odd, but true. The other patients in the waiting room tell their stories with excellent black humour, giggling at their imminent death or the grisly prospect of a month sat in a chemo chair being carefully, skillfully poisoned to within an inch of their life. They’re brave and honest and clear-eyed and keen to laugh.

But sometimes it stops being funny. Last time there was a guy sitting opposite me, telling his tale. I’d say he was 75 or 80, with male-pattern-baldness and thin, whispy hair lingering above his ears. Sunken eyes, and his hoarse, cracked voice was barely a whisper. He had no teeth, and his skin is like tissue paper. He told us all, with not a hint of self-pity, that he hoped to make it to his next birthday, because it’s an important one.

He’ll be 40.

It’s such a shock to find out that this 80-year-old geezer is actually a couple of years younger than me that I was still slightly speechless when it was my turn to tell everyone what type of cancer is gobbling me up, and I didn’t take enough care to explain things carefully. I just told them truth: there’s nothing wrong with me.

I tried to laugh it off, gave an apologetic shrug and hoped they’d move on. But judging by the looks they gave me, I would have been better to announce that I’d deliberately flambée’d their grandmother and reversed over their dog.

In the normal world, whether you like it or not, you have a disgust of cancer. When somebody tells you they have it, you shrink away from them, avoid them. They remind you that death is at the end of the road, and you don’t want to know that. But I remind these mortally ill people that life is at the other end of the road, and I don’t think they want to know.

They looked at me like I was a fraudster, which is how I feel every time I go to Christies. No matter what’s wrong with you, you can always find somebody worse off in a hospital. But in Christies every single person has a variation of the same thing: their body is turning against them. But not me. I’m fine. I know I’m doing my bit to help them all, but that’s hard to explain. The truth is, I feel like I don’t belong, and am just here to gobble up resources and mock their death with my life.

But somehow I still manage to nearly wee with excitement at the news that Jesus Christ Superstar is being revived and touring the country. Moyles, the UK’s 3rd most evil man, is playing Herod. Lloyd Webber, the UK’s 2nd most evil man, wrote the music. God, the universe’s most pernicious lie, is a major protagonist. And a Spice Girl is playing a warbling hooker in love with the wrong guy… which seems like an apt bit of casting, so fair play.

(The UK’s most evil man is, of course, Rolf Harris.)

Yet I’m thrilled. I know musicals are commonly held to to be a bit camp and gay and stupid and all of that palava. And I accept that many of them are, which is at least 73% of the appeal.

But Jesus Christ Superstar isn’t from the school of Glee, it’s from the school of Rock. It’s full of churning, thunderous brilliance. Not high-camp, stage-school impersonations of rock, but guttural, vigorous, angry, thrashing, powerful rock, with guitar hooks so hooky that they’ll spear right into you and never let go. It’s a bellowing, shrieking, clever, indignant, and strangely honest piece of work.

In it, Jesus is portrayed as a dreamy pillock with a death-wish that nobody else can understand, because maybe he’s crazy and God is just a symptom of his schizophrenia. Judas is the first man to say “Jesus Christ” in tongue-tied frustration, and is egged into betrayal by a chorus of soothing angels who are out to do God’s dirty work. Herod is a weak politician, bullied by the mob. Religious zealots are crazy and dangerous, and are constantly looking for a fight. And they all sing, which is a bit strange, but somehow works.

Why are you still here? Get your ass on Amazon and buy the album.

So I’m going. Line up now to point at me and take the piss, I don’t care. I’m going. And while you’re mocking me, here are some other musicals I’m proud to enjoy.

West Side Story

My Fair Lady

Oliver!

Oh, by the way, Rolf Harris is not the UK’s most evil man, that was a joke. He’s lovely. And Australian. And nobody can top Cowell for being pure, Sheffield steel, oak-smoked, all-leather, organic evil. He’s the M&S of evil. If anybody is capable of preventing me from seeing Jesus Christ Superstar, it would be the involvement of that man – if man he be! I’m still convinced that one day a camera will catch him slipping off his skin to reveal the lizard beneath, and then swallowing a lamb whole.

It’s almost impossible to write that opening sentence, because every spell-checker worth its salt screams at me to fix the gruesome syntax, especially the advanced and pedantic spell-checker in my head. Has talent. Not got talent. Simon Cowell has a lot to answer for, and to start with he’s going to answer to the irritated English teacher that lives inside me.

My talent is pointless trivia, so I’m going to use some to brighten up your day.

Simon Cowell.
Before Britain Has Talent and the other shows he’s foisted upon us like a demented scientist with a dangerously addictive new drug, the most successful thing he’d ever done was…. Mr Blobby’s single. Yes, he did that. Shoot him in the face. He also turned down Take That, because he has such a great eye for a successful act. Simon Cowell is good at only two things: promoting Simon Cowell, and shoving men’s tumescent penises right into his flapping ringpiece.

Bearing in mind my opening salvo, you might assume I hate the programme and never watch it. But you’re only half right. I hate the programme and watch it fairly often. Actually, you’re only a quarter right: I don’t watch once the auditions are over, because let’s face it, nobody likes watching success. Would Fawlty Towers have been great if Basil had run a first-class establishment? No, it’s great because we love to watch deluded idiots fail dismally.

And Britain Has Talent is chock-a-block with dismal idiots. Yes, I said Britain Has Talent. I’m determined to use English as she is goodly spoken.

But I didn’t watch the series that just ended, which means I missed the whole thing with the dog. In case you’re also living in a cave, a dog won Britain Has Talent, and the nation appears to have gone slightly demented about it.

Living in caves
In the year 1900 in the town where I live (Stockport) there were still over 200 people living in caves.

I imagine the dog hasn’t gone demented about the win, because it was probably demented to start with.

DogsDogs have only one bark when they communicate with other dogs, but up to 6 different barks to communicate with humans – they speak to us in a different language than they speak to each other.

As much as I love dogs – and I really love them – they are spectacularly gormless. Did you know they’re less intelligent than pigs? Whoops, sorry…

Pigs
Pigs are more intelligent than dogs. And tastier! Pigs are also the only land animals apart from humans that sunburn. (Manatees can sunburn, but they’re not land animals – even though they do looks surprisingly like Carol Yager. Who? We’ll get to that.)

So I doubt the dog in question was deliriously happy about winning. He was probably just deliriously happy to have some ham and drag his arse around the carpet until the klinkers fell off. That’s all it takes sometimes. They have very low expectations, and a ball can make them demented with glee.

We’re no better. My neighbours went demented with glee because one football team beat another football team at football, which is the thing they’re paid to do, and which they do every fucking week, and will do every fucking week for the rest of recorded time.

Football
Football is a game that children play. So grow the fuck up.

Ancillary football fact
Football makes me say fuck a lot.

The dog won for the same reason the fat girl wins: there are many, many people who are incredibly cynical about Cowell, and who want nothing more than to piss on his chips. He wants the thin, pretty girl to win. So people who hate Cowell vote for the fat frumpy girl, and Cowell wins either way.

Fat girls
The world’s fattest woman was Carol Yager. She looked like a Manatee. See, told you we’d get to that! At her heaviest she weighed over 114 stone, but nobody knows for sure because they couldn’t find scales big enough to put her on. She went on a diet and lost 36 stones in 3 months – which is also the fastest weight-loss in history – but she died anyway, and they had to knock the wall of her house down to get her body out. She was buried in a piano crate.

This year I decided I hated Cowell too much to let myself get drawn in. I think I may only watch again if somebody arrives saying that their talent is hurling javelins into greedy, closeted, self-regarding fuckwads. I’d watch that. I’d do that. Not a jury in the world would convict me once I played them Mr Blobby.

Cowell’s awfulness is so refined that I’m convinced he’s been prepared by Heston Blumenthal, who took offcuts of Pol Pot and Margaret Thatcher, seasoned them with shavings of Tom Cruise’s ego, and reduced them on a low heat until they caramelized into the quintessence of cunt that we see today. For a while he was equally repulsive and fascinating, but now repulsive has won the day, and the only thing that would make me watch him is if he was being slowly pushed into a bacon slicer.

So I can quite understand why people don’t want to know about politics – it’s the politicians. They’re awful. There are 650 MPs, and every one of them makes Cowell seem as likeable as the love-child of Stephen Fry and Miranda Hart.

But unlike Cowell, MPs are never going to get cancelled. They’ll always be with us, and voting for the novelty dog act isn’t going to change a damn thing. I know for sure, because we tried it at the last election, and now we have Nick Clegg being led around on a leash by the Tories, who’s only excuse for not addressing deep-rooted problems is that Labour didn’t fix them either. I’m not making a party political point – vote for who you want – I’m just encouraging you to take an interest, or there will be more of the terrible socio-economic injustices that are happening right now in your ignorant name.

Please read the next bit. It’s got numbers in it, but read anyway.

Terrible socio-economic injustices:
Since 2010 the UK’s richest 2000 people have seen their income increase by a total of £155billion, or 3 times the total UK deficit. Of those 2000 people, over 1700 are owners or managers of companies which got the bailout in 2010, and they are therefore responsible for 67% of our entire national debt. Which you and me are repaying. And them? They pay an average of 7% personal taxation, because they use offshore accounts to avoid proper tax.

Debt crisis? Or a massive redistribution of national income from poor to rich? Because the simple maths says that you, me, and every other person in the country have had to cough up £6,300 each to pay for their fuck-up, and rather than repaying their own debt they’ve trousered the cash. We rescued their business, and now we repay the debt incurred by rescuing their business. We’ve lost jobs, homes, education, health provision, pensions and futures because not enough people are complaining about the bare-faced theft that’s going on. We’ve got used to it, and aren’t even questioning that we have a massive debt that needs to be repayed.

Massive debt
As a percentage of our national income, our debt is currently lower than it was for 208 of the last 250 years. By any historical measure, we don’t have a debt problem. And while we’re on the subject of history, today’s wealth-gap between the richest 2000 people and the average UK citizen is the same as it was the year of the French Revolution.

You stop paying any attention to how your country is run for just 20 or 30 years, and look what happens. That’ll teach you to take your eye off the ball.

Sorry. I lulled you in with a rant about novelty dogs and Simon Cowell’s flapping ringpiece, and then sucker-punched you by pointing out a damn good reason to stop being distracted by football and the fucking Olympics, and start engaging in politics. I know, it’s a terribly sneaky way to make you see some pretty horrific facts about what’s being done in your name. And I know I just called you ignorant, but you probably are ignorant. You probably don’t know this stuff, because it’s not being reported. Well now you know. That’s a start.

About 10 years ago my business partner, who I shall call Steve, came to me with a conundrum: he’d just started a relationship that he felt was promising, but at the same time a magazine article was about to be published which would embarrass him. Through a friend in PR, he’d been selected to appear in Marie Claire as one of Britain’s three top bachelors.

Believe me, I know the man, and if he’s a top bachelor then I’m the Duchess of Argyle. He’s a balding 50-something gnome with skin like a papier-mâché scrotum, permanently broke, and bears a queasy resemblance to a cartoon Keith Chegwin. Honestly, he’s one of my best mates, but if women are flocking to him the only explanations are witchcraft, or that he’s secretly the world’s greatest scientist, and has created a thermonuclear fanny magnet.

I even have a photo of Steve wearing exactly this outfit. And it’s not a good look, Steve, it really isn’t.

Steve’s conundrum was that his ego was being stroked sensationally by being described as a top bachelor, but he was no longer single, and couldn’t take advantage of the sudden publicity. What to do, what to do?

I told him exactly what to do: totally ignore women’s magazines! You could leave one open for a month at the bottom of a parrot cage and it would end up containing less shite than when you bought it.

I realise that’s half the fun. I’m not saying women are all hemi-demi-semi-wits with a brain 1/3 the size of a man’s and mostly full of a large, pointless, free-floating bone. I’m confident there are plenty of males who are quite spectacular dullards – in fact I know there are, because one of them lives in my house and keeps staring at me out of mirrors.

So women’s magazines aren’t stupid because women are stupid: they’re stupid because, like all of us, women like to feel better about themselves, and reading something that sucks the IQ out of your skull like a brain-hoover is jolly satisfying. Everybody needs something to rant about, otherwise blogs like this wouldn’t exist.

(I should say that this particular blog only exists because a lady of my acquaintance pointed me to this article, and inspired me. It’s not, I should point out, the first time she’s inspired me to consider masturbation…)

It’s an article in Cosmo called “Masturbation for Beginners”, and I feel bad for even linking to it – you might assume it’s a recommendation, but it’s more like a grim warning. It manages to make the humble wank sound like you’re a timid but desperate sex-offender, tentatively grooming your own body ahead of a tearful violation.

Apparently you have to do the following things:

take a leisurely bath and light candles

caress your own face and massage your scalp

gradually work your hands down your body using featherlight touches

tease your abdomen

just as you’re about to get to the good bit, pull away until you’re ready to take things further

Let me put this in context. Before your great, great, great grandfather was born, before even his eldest relatives had been born, just as the Reformation was happening and the Enlightenment was bringing about the modern world, deep in a forest in eastern Europe a single nut fell to the floor and lay, waiting for the spring to come. It sought deep minerals from the rich soil, and crept out of the ground through the seasons that followed. For 250 years it swelled with the sun and rode out the winters. It thrust down into the soil and strained up to the sky, and it performed a miracle of quantum mechanics, transforming sunlight into energy, and energy into branches. It formed a verdant canopy, protecting men and beasts from nature’s fecund blessing. It fed birds and bees, and bloomed into a symphony of colour when the summer lay blissfully upon the land. As the icy fingers of winter crept into our sinews, it dropped leaves and nuts to the ground, furnishing woodland creatures with food and shelter. For a quarter of a millennium its abstract arboreal art had breached the drab horizon and thrown up one of nature’s greatest achievements – the glorious, random tangle of branch and leaf that is the mighty elm.

And then some cunt cut it down to print a Cosmo about having a wank.

I wouldn’t mind if it was quality writing, but it’s so bad it makes me want to destroy language. It makes me want to invent a time-machine, flip back to 1440, and shoot Johannes Gutenberg in his beardy little face.

Forget all that bullshit in Cosmo: here’s my advice:

Look in the mirror. Are you Barbra Cartland? No? Then forget all that folderol and trumpery about bathing and candles and caressing.

Don’t make an attempt to “tease yourself” unless you have a multiple personality syndrome, because guess what: you probably know what you’re going to do next. You can’t tease somebody who knows exactly what is about to happen.

Your body isn’t going to rear up and gallop away like a startled horse. So don’t “seduce” it, just put your fingers on the bit that feels good, and keep rubbing until it feels even better.

Clean up before it dries and goes crusty.

And next time you’re tempted to look at Cosmo, go outside and look at a tree instead. And if you get bored with the tree, look at somebody you think is fit, and go home for another wank.

This morning the news made me wail with despair,
Because once again Christians prove that they care
Not a jot for poor or the different or strange.
They just want to lock them all up in a cage.

So I thought I’d write down what I feel in a blog,
But I know that it can be a kind of a slog
To read that I’m having a rant and a rave
About stuff that would make Jesus turn in his grave.

So down came the spirit of old Doctor Seuss
And gave me a big old kick up the caboose.
You’ll call me a liberal moaner and whiner,
But my heart was just broken by North Carolina.

In case you have missed what was done by that state,
They had an intelligent, grown-up debate:
Can two men be married, or two women wed?
(Because love really matters, as Jesus Christ said).

And to you and to me, intelligent folk,
The whole thing sounds like it is some kind of joke.
Because what a guy does with his willy or bum
Makes really no difference, when all’s said and done.

Whoever a girl wants to fondle and cuddle
Should not get your policies all in a muddle.
And who a chap wants to lie down with and kiss
Is really no reason for knickers to twist.

So yes, as you guessed it, conservative creeps
Have decided that gay people aren’t really peeps.
They can’t have the right to be in love and marry
As long as it’s in Carolina they tarry.

If you think that marriages really do matter
Then surely you’re proving you’re mad as a hatter
To say its illegal, immoral and rude
To outlaw the love tween a guy and his dude.

Your holy book teaches you how to be caring
By loving, forgiving, and property sharing.
But nowadays “Christian” seems to mean greed,
Although Lennon told us its love that we need.

Your holy book tells you that you mustn’t kill.
Respect one another, and don’t rob the till.
But you’re starving the poor, there’s a queue on death row,
And you say gays can’t love, as if you’d even know.

You don’t care for poverty, don’t care for peace,
You back crazy wars in the wild middle east.
And you don’t care for difference, the sick or the lame,
You don’t care that Jesus would think you’re insane.

Or care for the love Lennon said that we need,
Or for backs without beds, or mouths without feed.
You don’t care for science or air that we breathe,
Cos it isn’t what Fox told you you should believe.

Your closed-mind will open for any old guff,
Like invisible, mind-reading men up above,
Who magically conjured up all space and time.
And I’m sorry this ends with a rather forced rhyme…

But when it comes down to the bare fundamen-i-tals
You really just care about gay men and genitals.